I’ve never had a significant surgery
…before April of this year.
Scared, anxious, utterly aware of the
seriousness of
* * *
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| Keck is only 15 minutes from my home |
The staff at USC Keck were wonderfully reassuring and
supportive.
Then they stabbed me full of needles, put sensors all over
my torso, drew a bunch of my blood. Plastic tubes hanging off my body, some
pumping stuff in, some taking fluids out.
Ok so far.
“You might feel a little pinch…”
The neurosurgeon, Dr. Liu, not only explained what would
happen, he also reassured me of the effectiveness of this procedure.
Finally, wheeled into the operating room, filled with
massive machines, and a very kind, friendly staff again. Head nurse – I think his name was Zac – covered
with tattoos. I felt at home. It is the eastside after all. I surrender.
Dr. Chbeeb, the anesthesiologist, is impossibly young. I asked him why he specialized in
anesthesiology and would it make any difference that I taught at CSULA while
I’m in a USC hospital. He laughed and
said he liked taking people’s pain away, and no, they were happy to accept
patients from CSULA. We bumped fists
(less infection possibility than a hand shake).
Someone said “Already.
Let’s put this patient under…” My
body flooded with Valium and other nice things.
I’m instantly warm, comfortable, very drowsy. This is going to be no sweat.
* * *
 |
| Not MY X-Ray, but very similar. Note the pinched spinal chord at the bottom. |
The operation is called a ‘Decompression of the Lumbar Spine.’ What was astonishing was that for the
complexity of the procedure, it took just two tiny incisions. Amazing.
* * *
I thought these people liked me! Now it just seems like they’ve found exactly
the nerves to inflict the most pain possible.
Not true, of course, it just felt that way.
“Give him some more…” someone says. Still, screaming pain in the core of my body. “A bit more” the voice commands.
Pretty quickly, the absolute worst of the pain subsides, but
I’m clearly in for the long haul.
* * *
Working through the pain at home has been hard, as the
anesthesia has worn off, and I’m back to existing outside the all-encompassing
embrace of the hospital.
My former student Luis has temporarily moved into my place
to help
me out for a couple of weeks.
He’s as close to a son as I can imagine.
We have a long history, mostly of my mentoring and developing a close
friendship, helping him in any way I can, and he helping me numerous times by
staying in my place when I am out of town, shooting and editing news projects,
and in general hanging out with mutual friends.
Right now, I’m really leaning on him as my main ‘wing man’, helping with
the heavier chores and cooking.
 |
| My best pal and care-giver |
On that front, Luis is a grad of Cordon Bleu, and every time
I turn around, he’s cooking delicious, tempting food – this may turn out to be
the best thing about recovery. T-Bone
steaks, grilled squash/eggplant/onion & granny smith apples. Potato leek soup with smoked pork neck
bones. Chilaquiles, with salsa. Croissant bread pudding with stewed
strawberries and pears. Luis is great
company; we have lots to talk about, and he laughs easily. Compared with what I would be getting in a
recovery hospital, I’ve struck it rich.
Luis brings friends over, which helps make my place a little more lively
– he’s a great room mate, and really puts me at ease. I know if there was a problem, he’d be there.
* * *
Which brings up the big issue of this post. A week after the surgery is my birthday. I’ve finally attained 62 years, which a week
ago didn’t seem possible. Today, with back
brace, a walker, pain meds, and rehab on the horizon, I’m really feeling every
one of those years. The two hour surgery requires only two band aids.
 |
| Amazing, tiny incisions worked their magic |
Despite the obvious care and concern of the great staff at
the hospital (especially to prep nurse
Simone, who kept up a steady stream of conversation with me that was both
funny, reassuring, and graceful in what she had to do and supervise in prepping
me for surgery. I’m quite simply in
awe.) The surgery and my birthday being
so close to each other inevitably raised questions of age, mortality, fragility
and how our lives are likely to be more and more impacted by health care,
medicine, examinations, labs and the like as we grow grayer.
Also, this is a big one.
Sixty two was the age generations before us were allowed to move off the
production line, and start taking life easier.
For my generation, 62 will just fly by.
As soon as I recover from this surgery, I’m back to work, and not likely
to even consider retirement for at least another decade or more.
So I’m back to feeling a little anxious; not short-term,
like worrying about the surgery, which is done, but long term. How much productive time do I have left? Have I treated the people in my life with the
respect and affection they deserve?
Have I thanked people enough? Not just regarding this surgery, but in life, in
general?
* * *
 |
| George, Cecilia & me (Ctr.) |
The birthday messages move me.
I’m a cynical journalist, media watcher and teacher. I remind everyone that it takes just a couple
of clicks to send a birthday wish, usually from people who wouldn’t be reminded
if it wasn’t for the electronic wizardry of FaceBook. So as a media theorist, I’m jaded and
unimpressed.
On the other hand, no one is forced to send me these kind
thoughts. On this count, I have to give
FaceBook my grudging admiration. The
simple ability to send a nice thought to someone easily is the internet at its
best.
I am virtually positive that there are folks who deserve
more recognition than I do, and I don’t see this long string of postings as
proof of my popularity. Rather I see
that long list of messages from people who took a few seconds to write me as
part of the rich web of relationships, shared experiences, and connections we
have stitched together over the past half century or so.
Old pal Linda was a friend in high school. We had years of adventures in her VW bug,
getting into the kind of benign trouble you are supposed to at that age. I’ve had no connection to Linda and that
circle of friends for 45 years.
Students, like Carlos in San Diego, who has been a pal since he was my
student, nearly a decade ago. I’ve
always been proud of his accomplishments and love hearing of his adventures
(newly minted dad!). Friends in
Pakistan, Singapore, Europe, and all across the country, from Hawaii to New
York, Australia to Canada check in.
Each
of my siblings, who know me better than anyone, call to rib me and offer me
canes and walkers. (Sadly, I actually have the walker as part of my rehab.) Rod, who was not only a student, but was also
a staff member of our department, and after that an extraordinarily generous
and successful producer at one of our major local networks. He’s come back to school so many times to
give inspiration and advice to our students, I don’t know how I can ever repay
him. The whole circle from a decade and
a half in New York. Undergrad school
(Univ. of NV, Reno) and Grad School (NYU), a students from a semester teaching
in Indiana – not just friends, but groups of friends; circles intersecting with
other circles; faculty friends at my current school, Cal State LA, from my old
life in radio at KPFK, KPCC and on NPR…representatives from all of them.
* * *
So, sure, it’s never been easier to pop out a Happy Birthday
and be cynical about it. But even from
that perspective, I get a lump in my throat as I read down the list.
You didn’t have to write me, but you did.
It’s not a competition, but I can’t help but feel that there
are a few people out there who remember me, who care about me, and in many more
cases than I can count or deserve, who love me.
It’s humbling, but nourishing and about the best medication
someone recovering from surgery could ask for, regardless of age.
It will never be enough, but I hereby post my thanks
nonetheless.
